The mountain dairy lay above the valley on the lower reaches of Stapafell, and the round trip usually took the best part of an hour. In the summer months the sheep grazed in the upland pastures and Arnor’s shepherd used the dairy hut as a temporary home, so that he could keep an eye on the flock and prevent them from straying too far. The slope was steep and closely cropped and the sheep—some brown, some creamy, some spotted, all silky-haired with long, curling horns—stood and watched Helgi and Kol as they passed. Some greeted them in a friendly rumble, others uttered shrill cries of alarm. The greasy smell of their wool mingled with the smell of sun-dried sheep-droppings in the still air.
The reddish light of the low sun bathed the hillside and warmed their backs, but the higher they climbed, the chillier it got.
Helgi had made this journey so many times that he barely noticed his surroundings. He was puzzling over his strange conversation with Audun. He could understand why Audun had fled at the sight of the axe, but it bothered him that his friend had no plans to pay Thorgrim back for the humiliation he had suffered, and the attempt made on his life.
Audun’s funny, Helgi thought. He doesn’t seem to care what people say about him. He won’t lift a finger against Thorgrim for attacking him. But he’s no coward. He’s offered to help me if I get involved in a fight. He’ll do anything for his friends, but when it comes to sticking up for himself, he needs a push.
It was comforting to know that he had an older and larger friend he could rely on. There was also Jorund, one of the few who had escaped with them from Norway, but Jorund was closely associated with his father. He couldn’t go to his father. Helgi couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t felt nervous in his father’s company, but these days they barely spoke to one another. Halfdan’s temper had always been high, but now it flared up at the slightest thing and Helgi kept out of his way as much as possible.
Helgi thought about how he had defended his father when he’d been arguing with Embla and Malachi. He found his father strange and frightening in many ways, but he could understand his obsession with going home. Halfdan had lost so much: many of his closest friends, the family estate, his chieftaincy, a massive fortune acquired through his trading missions. But it was the shame, the dishonour of having been shown incapable of defending his household, his property, and his position, that hurt most of all.
At first, his father had put on a brave face and had tried to bear his humiliation without complaining. But it soon became apparent to Helgi and everyone else that Halfdan’s fury at the losses and injustice he had suffered was consuming him and that he would feel no satisfaction until he had obtained vengeance. He spent many evenings restlessly pacing up and down in the back room, which had become his private den, a place where he could take refuge from the rest of the household. He ate very little, drank rather too much, and there were days when he refused to speak to anyone, but lay in bed staring at the wall in black despair, or sat brooding morosely by the fire. Arnor, Halfdan’s brother, was the only one who dared approach him at these times, though his attempts to offer comfort were rebuffed irritably or met with a blank stare. When she dared, Gerda tried to lift his mood by talking to him cheerfully, but usually she tiptoed around him. His depression hung over the whole household, like a leaden-grey cloud.
Arnor sometimes came over in the evening to keep Halfdan company in the back room Nobody else dared to venture in there. Sometimes they drank together and spoke very little, and at other times they reminisced about the old country or bickered about Arnor’s growing ambition to bid for a chieftaincy or how to deal with Eric and his troublesome offspring—it all depended on the mood in which Arnor found his brother.
Arnor had decided to break his allegiance with Eric back in early June. Perhaps he had hoped that some decisive action would persuade his brother to stay in Iceland; at any rate, Halfdan had certainly influenced his decision. Helgi, eavesdropping on their conversation one evening, had overheard Arnor saying to his father, ‘You should acquire some land of your own, here, Halfdan.’ The men were sitting in the back room but had left the door ajar; peering through the crack, Helgi could make out his father’s hunched form in the flickering shadows cast by the firelight, and his uncle’s profile, as he leant forward, arguing his point.
‘The family would have more local prominence if we had a bigger landholding. Eric wouldn’t be able to throw his weight around so much. I can’t tolerate his depredations much longer,’ he heard Arnor say.
‘I wouldn’t put up with him either. But how do you expect me to get any land around here?’ Halfdan grumbled. ‘All the best areas are already taken. Why should anyone want to sell up? Do you expect me to take someone’s property by force? After I’ve suffered such persecution myself? What kind of a man do you take me for?’
‘But brother, it would help to have you around, particularly now that I’ve decided to break with Eric. There could be repercussions—violent ones.’
‘You’re quite within your rights telling Eric to get stuffed. There’s no law in Iceland that a wealthy freeborn man has to pledge allegiance to any chieftain, let alone follow a bad one just because they happen to be neighbours. You said so yourself!’
‘Yes, but I don’t want to isolate myself—that would be dangerous. If you settled here, we could bid for a chieftaincy between us! We could lobby people at the assembly. Our combined force would be pretty strong. That’s why Eric’s trembling in his boots right now, because he knows that if we teamed up together, we’d be serious contenders.’
‘I thought chieftaincies were usually inherited,’ said Halfdan, the shadows on his face deepening as he frowned.
‘Most are, but they can be bought, and vacancies do arise from time to time.’
‘But Eric has powerful family connections. What about his brother-in-law, the chieftain? And there’s his nephew at Helgafell. Do you mean to take them on as well?’
‘Eric’s annoyed so many people round here that it would be easy to woo his followers away once they see there’s an alternative. It’s not enough just to come from a powerful family—you need the right personal qualities to succeed as a chieftain.’
‘Qualities of leadership,’ murmured Halfdan.
‘Exactly. You need to persuade the local farmers that it’s in their interest to ally themselves with you. If you’re prepared to uphold their rights in disputes and you don’t make too many unreasonable demands on them, you win their loyalty and trust in return.’
Halfdan stifled a yawn. ‘Arnor, you Icelanders have invented an admirable system of government. You have no king to oppress you, and I must admit I envy the freedom you all enjoy. But having said that, I can’t imagine anything worse than being a chieftain here! Having to spend every day listening to a bunch of litigious farmers, moaning at me to sort out their problems and uphold their rights, only to find out that they’ve buggered off and elected a new chieftain because they’re not satisfied with my efforts!’ He chuckled. ‘No, Arnor, that’s not for me. The petty squabbles of your neighbours don’t interest me in the slightest. I have to go back to Lofoten and reclaim my own estate.’
‘Well, brother, if you’re not prepared to help me, I’ll have to think of some other way of restraining Eric. Perhaps I’ll look for an alliance elsewhere,’ Arnor said testily.
Halfdan looked sombrely at his brother for a while, then said, ‘I know what I’d do in your position, though I’m not recommending you follow my advice. I haven’t had a great deal of luck lately, as you know, and what I’m proposing is bound to cause complications and quite a lot of bad feeling.’
‘Give me your advice, and I’ll decide whether or not to take it.’
‘Divide and rule. Switch your allegiance to Eric’s brother-in-law. You won’t stand a chance if you challenge both of them together.’
Arnor had been delighted with this idea. He had made a formal announcement of his change of allegiance at the summer assembly in Thorsnes that very month.
Less than two months had passed since then, and Helgi was afraid that the repercussions Arnor had envisaged had already started. The attack on Audun was an indirect attack on Arnor. And it didn’t bode well that Thorgrim wanted to see him.
A fly buzzed loudly in Helgi’s ear. He swatted it away. There were clouds of the pesky things up here, hanging around, bothering the sheep. The small yellowish black ones were the worst, the sort that liked to crawl all over a pile of dung, then fly up and squat on your hand. Disgusting. But they were leaving the sheep behind now.
It was just as well he could call on Audun if things got tough, Helgi thought, lapsing back into his reverie. Jorund hadn’t been around much lately, and neither had his father. He had hardly seen them the last few weeks. They had gone with Arnor to the summer assembly after Arnor pointed out to Halfdan that it was an opportunity to pick up gossip about the situation in Norway. Talking to merchants and recent emigrés was the best way to get news, and Halfdan had begun to spend more and more time away from home, taking goods to be traded at the nearest ports, at Thorsnes and at Reykjavik in the south. Helgi was glad that his father was getting out more, and becoming less of a recluse. He felt guilty for enjoying his father’s absences, but the atmosphere in the house was much more bearable when Halfdan wasn’t there.
Helgi found all the intrigue rather exciting. On several occasions, strangers, swathed in hoods and cloaks, had turned up at the house and asked him where they could find his father. If Halfdan was away, they left cryptic messages with him or Gerda. Once or twice his father had received an urgent summons, and ridden off in the night to some meeting held at an undisclosed location. More often, Helgi heard the low rumble of muffled conversation in the back room. He hung around by the door, wishing his father would let him in on the secret discussions being held inside. Malachi called his father’s visitors ‘spies’ and ‘troublemakers’ but Helgi enjoyed the thrill of being associated with what was obviously a major conspiracy—even if he only played a minor role.
He had just begun to spin an exciting fantasy in his head in which he was a spy on the run, riding cross-country to deliver some crucial intelligence about the movements of the king’s warships around the coast, when the little dairy hut came in sight. It was built on a craggy lump of lava which stuck straight out of the mountainside. They had reached the end of the moss-grown lava; ahead of them lay a scree of loose, black rubble. Helgi made a halt and dismounted. Looking down, he could see the valley below him in shadow and beyond that the dark blue sea. He left Kol waiting outside, knocked, and pushed open the door. It was dark and cold inside, and smelt of smoke and damp turf. There were some signs of recent habitation—the ashes of a peat fire were heaped in the stone-lined hearth, beside which stood a cooking pot full of water; and several rolled-up blankets and a bundle that probably contained food lay on the rough wooden bench—but Arnor’s shepherd wasn’t home.
Taking a clean ladle, Helgi filled four skin bags with skyr from the large wooden storage barrel and carried them carefully outside, where he deposited them inside the panniers that were strapped to Kol’s back. Kol, who was always patient when Helgi handled him, though less cooperative with other people, didn’t protest at the weight, but Helgi decided to lead him back down rather than add to the burden by riding him. The exercise would keep him warmer too.
It was a fine, bright evening, not at all dark, for there was no real night at that time of year, merely a golden twilight when the sun set around midnight. Even so, Helgi could barely distinguish the turf roofs of the farmstead from the surrounding meadowgrass as he neared the bottom of the hill. Where the track narrowed not far ahead, he saw three men waiting, one standing idly, the other two sitting hunched on the verge. Helgi stopped and cursed to himself. He dismissed the idea of trying to avoid the Ericssons at once, though he could have left the track and ridden back across the fields. He knew they would catch up with him sooner or later and it would give them an excuse to taunt him for being a coward. It was better to get the meeting over with now, even if it meant he would have to face them on his own.
He was glad he had his scramasax with him. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it.
He took a steadying breath and advanced towards the group, leading Kol over the rattling stones. Thorgrim, who was standing on the dirt track, watched him come; Helgi noticed his hand move slowly to something concealed within his coat. The other two, hooded and cloaked, got to their feet with deliberate slowness. They stood in a half circle, blocking the path. Helgi caught a gleam of metal from a sword hilt hanging from Thorbrand’s ample waist. Thorstein, who was not much older than himself but a good deal bigger, was leaning on a heavy staff, thick-set and expressionless.
Helgi slowed as he came near, then stopped. He wouldn’t grovel, but neither would he do anything that could be construed as disrespectful.
‘Evening, Thorgrim,’ he murmured. Thorgrim made no reply. Helgi cleared his throat and said, ‘Malachi said you wanted to talk to me.’ Thorbrand glanced at Thorstein and the two of them strolled slowly round either side of Helgi and inspected Kol’s pack-saddle. Kol shifted uneasily and Helgi saw a glint of fear in the pony’s eye.
Thorbrand looked up questioningly at Thorgrim, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. The two younger brothers removed a bag of skyr each from Kol’s pack and returned to Thorgrim’s side, without a word. Helgi waited to see what they would do next. There was a heavy silence. Thorgrim stared at him, his jaw rigid, and Helgi tried to meet his look.
When Thorgrim finally spoke, it was in a low growl, through gritted teeth: ‘I don’t like being kept waiting. When I summon people, they come straight away.’
He lunged at Helgi, grabbed him by the front of his shirt, and held him up on his toes. Helgi was not heavily built and was at least a head and shoulders shorter than Thorgrim. He shrank back slightly as Thorgrim’s ugly features, previously concealed by the hat-brim, suddenly loomed close—narrow, cruel eyes, a crooked nose, flecks of spittle on his red slash of a mouth, and slightly protruding teeth.
‘It’s time you learned a lesson in respect!’ Thorgrim spat.
Helgi struggled and tore at Thorgrim’s fingers, trying to loosen them. Thorgrim roared with laughter, let go with one hand, and administered a terrific slap to Helgi’s head. Everything went fuzzy before his eyes but came back into focus when he blinked. Helgi reached for his scramasax, but as he struggled to wrench it out of its casing, Thorgrim dashed him to the ground and he landed heavily on his back. The others laughed mirthlessly, but Thorgrim regarded him with disgust.
‘Look at him there, grovelling in the dust. The son of a disgraced chieftain, beaten and brought low just like his father. All his family put on airs and think themselves high and mighty when they’re no better than dogs. You should know your place, Easterner,’ he sneered.
Thorgrim strolled around him where he lay, then his face twisted in a cruel smile and he aimed a kick at Helgi’s ribs. Helgi curled up in pain and hid his face as a burning pain flared across his chest. He did not cry out.
‘My brother Thorstein came to see you. That was over a week ago now and you’ve been avoiding us all that time. Thorstein wants to offer you a challenge. He wants to take you on in a stickball match at the autumn games. I told him: Don’t get your hopes up. That wimpy Easterner won’t even dare show his face, so he certainly won’t want to play ball. But the challenge still stands. Personally, I don’t think you’d make a worthy opponent. You’re not man enough.’ Thorgrim spat on him contemptuously. Thorstein growled in agreement, wielded the staff and landed a blow on Helgi’s back. Helgi flinched and curled up in a ball, expecting more thumps and kicks. But when he peeped out through his arms, he saw them swaggering off across the field, taking the skyr with them.
He lay there waiting for the pain to recede. He could hear shouts and echoes of mocking laughter some way off. The throbbing in his back and chest was terrible. His eyes stung with tears of humiliation. He had done absolutely nothing to deserve this beating, he thought angrily. Almost at once, his feelings hardened into cold hatred and a fierce desire for revenge.
He rolled sideways onto his hands and knees, got a foot under him, grunted and pushed himself up. As he straightened, a shot of pain from his bruised ribs made the ground lurch up at him, and he had to cling to Kol’s neck to stay upright. Some unconscious communication must have passed between him and the horse at that moment, because Helgi was suddenly aware that they had made an unspoken pact. Kol shifted restlessly and raised his head high, flattening his ears back against his skull. The whites of his eyes grew wide and his nostrils flared as he bared his front teeth. He tensed his tail, slashing it vigorously from side to side; then he reared up on his hind legs and uttered a shrill squeal before stamping hard on the ground. Helgi had never seen him in such a temper before, but he wasn’t afraid, because he knew that Kol was on his side.
Helgi touched Kol’s neck to reassure him and stood for a moment, waiting for the feeling of unsteadiness to pass. Clutching his aching ribs, he hobbled over to look in the saddle-baskets. There were only two bags of skyr left, but two would be enough for the job. He pulled the bags out. The necks of the bags were tied up with drawstrings, so it wouldn’t be too difficult to hold them and ride at the same time. There was no time to lose. Helgi mounted Kol and they set off after the Ericssons, gathering speed until they were flying across the grass in a wild and determined gallop. Helgi crouched low in the saddle, gripping the reins tight in one hand and the skyr bags in the other.
The noise of Kol’s hooves sounded thunderous to Helgi, and as they drew nearer he was amazed that Thorgrim and his brothers seemed unaware of it. They were halfway across the valley, strolling along with their backs to him, absorbed in their banter, laughing and shoving each other about, and not expecting an immediate reprisal.
When they had almost caught up, Helgi swung the heavily loaded bags up into the air and whirled them around by the drawstrings, once, twice, three times, high above his head. As he spun the bags, he felt them gain momentum.
‘This requires good timing and an ability to judge distance,’ he told Kol.
He waited until Kol had almost drawn level, and then he let the bags fly. The sacks of cream sailed through the air and hit the ground just in front of the Ericssons. There was a spectacularly messy explosion.
Kol galloped on past the Ericssons, and behind him Helgi heard furious shouts. He applied pressure to the right-hand rein to steer Kol in the direction of home. As Kol swerved to the right, Helgi caught a delightful glimpse of Thorgrim who stood quivering with rage, covered in white splashes and shaking his fist at the heavens as if an enormous seagull had dumped on him from a great height.
But instead of racing off towards the farm, Kol doubled back and headed straight for the Ericssons. It took a moment or two to dawn on Thorgrim that the horse was going to attack—fury, it seemed, had temporarily paralysed his ability to think—but then panic and confusion broke out. The brothers jostled and pushed each other in their haste to get out of the way, but by then Kol was almost upon them. He uttered a piercing battle-shriek and struck out with his hooves. Thorgrim threw himself sideways to avoid being struck and his brothers dived in the opposite direction.
Kol thundered on a little way and wheeled around to review the damage. The chieftain’s sons lay sprawling on the ground, beaten and brought low, groaning and splattered all over with mud and cream. The horse gave a satisfied whinny.
‘Kol—you bad, wonderful horse!’ said Helgi in a shocked tone. Then with a roar of laughter he whipped up the reins and urged Kol to gallop as fast as he could in the direction of the Forge.
Helgi laughed all the way home. He had never seen anything so outrageously funny in all his life. Every time he pictured what had happened, he was seized by a fit of hysterical giggles. He was ecstatic at the thought of Thorgrim’s humiliation and a little appalled, too, by the ferocity of Kol’s attack.
He embraced Kol’s neck as they flew along, praising his bravery, and thanking him again and again for being such a loyal friend. He hadn’t ordered Kol to attack—it had been entirely Kol’s idea. Kol had been acting on his behalf, as his partner, but had taken it one step further than Helgi would have dared. Helgi marvelled at the mysterious alliance that had come into existence between them and made them capable of wreaking such a magnificent and terrible revenge on their enemies.
As he cantered into the yard, he met Gerda, who was sweeping the flagstones. Gerda, a stout but handsome woman, wore long baggy skirts but her apron was always spotlessly clean and fastened with a plain silver brooch at each shoulder. She had been widowed many years ago, and her hair had turned prematurely grey, making her look older than she really was. The grey didn’t show too much because she covered her head with a headscarf, just as all respectable married women did, whether their husbands were alive or not.
When she saw Helgi arrive, flushed and breathless from his gallop, she put down her broom and stood looking at him, with her hands on her hips and her sleeves rolled up.
‘What happened?’ she demanded sharply. ‘You’ve been up to mischief again, haven’t you! Where’s the skyr?’
Helgi jumped down from the saddle.
‘The Ericssons robbed us!’ he announced excitedly. ‘But don’t worry, Gerda – we taught them a lesson they won’t forget in a hurry.’
‘What?’ she screeched. ‘You’ve been fighting, haven’t you—after I told you to keep out of their way! And you’ve lost the food! You can’t even be trusted with a simple task!’
She brandished her broom threateningly; Helgi dodged away and ran inside the house, but Gerda followed him in and chased him around the hearth which stood in the centre of the floor.
‘It’s all too easy to run short of food by the spring—even if we are living off your uncle’s charity! And it’s wicked to waste food that’s taken so long to prepare!’ she cried.
‘I didn’t waste the food—it was stolen and the Ericssons were the wicked ones, not me!’ Helgi retorted. He had expected Gerda to be angry about the skyr, but felt she was being most unfair. She should have been proud of him too for standing up to them.
‘I told you to keep away from them—after what happened to Audun. You should have taken a different route home when you saw them coming. You could have been killed!’ scolded Gerda, almost in tears. She swiped at him with the broom, and hit the cooking pot suspended above the hearth, which swung wildly like a pendulum, spilling broth all over the fireplace.
‘I’d rather fight with honour than run away like a coward!’
‘You’re as bad as your father! That’s just the kind of thing he would say! All that precious stuff lost just because of some … some stupid point of honour!’ Gerda exclaimed angrily.
‘At least I stopped the Ericssons from enjoying their ill-gotten gains!’ Helgi yelled back.
Malachi was leaning forward eagerly and gripping the arms of his chair, with a wicked grin on his face, thoroughly enjoying the row. Embla sat in the corner, combing wool by the light of an oil lamp. Helgi’s words about fighting with honour made her glance up at him from her work, but her expression was inscrutable and she quickly bent her head again, keeping well out it. Helgi wished she would take his side. He suspected that she only pretended to disapprove of him and that secretly she rather admired his bravery.
He flung himself down on a bench in the corner in a sullen temper. It was so unfair to be blamed for something that wasn’t his fault.
At that moment, a tramping of boots was heard in the entry and the door was thrown wide open. They all looked to see a dark figure coming through the low doorway. His presence at once commanded the attention of everyone in the room. His heavy brows were locked in a characteristic scowl over his black eyes, and his hair, which was wavy, dark-brown, and streaked with grey, looked even wilder and more unkempt than usual. He was dressed carelessly, with his shirt untucked and a tattered heavy jacket slung on his muscular back, and his beard, which he wore to hide a battle-scar on his chin, had not been combed for many months. Gerda’s eyes softened for an instant when she saw him, but quickly reverted to a hard-edged, angry look. Halfdan stopped on the threshold, glowering at them all, as he took in the situation: Gerda’s flushed cheeks and raised broom, the mischievous amusement in Malachi’s wrinkled eyes, and the boy slouched in the opposite corner, looking moody and defiant.
He gave a morose grunt and frowned at Helgi.
‘In trouble again?’
Not waiting for an answer, he shambled past, still wearing his heavy boots, went through to the back room, and closed the door.
Gerda sighed fretfully and bustled outside to put the broom away. When she returned, she stood at the loom and began to work, threading the shuttle briskly to and fro.
‘You should try to be good for his sake, if not for mine,’ she said, with a stern glance at Helgi. ‘It doesn’t help that your father’s been neglecting you. He ought to take you firmly in hand, but since he lost everything, he can barely look after himself, let alone anyone else. He’s so preoccupied with his troubles. He spends all his time brooding in there and dreaming up fantastical schemes for revenge, or arguing with his brother and drinking late into the night. And it’s left to me to somehow hold everything together! Not that your father would care much about disciplining you, being so wild-spirited himself. But sometimes I wish he’d take more of an interest.’
‘He hates me, Gerda—he’s always hated me!’
‘Now that’s not true, Helgi.’
Yes it is, Helgi thought. He could remember very few demonstrations of fatherly love.
‘He can hardly bear to look at me sometimes …’
‘That’s not because he hates you—’ Gerda began to say, but the words caught in her throat. ‘I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this, Malachi, I really don’t,’ she complained, shaking her head in despair.
Malachi nodded sagely. ‘These are difficult times. We all have our crosses to bear.’
He craned his head in Helgi’s direction.
‘Now tell us what you did to the Ericssons,’ he said eagerly, rubbing his hands together with glee. Gerda rolled her eyes in exasperation.
‘Nothing they didn’t deserve,’ mumbled Helgi. ‘They ambushed me and Kol on the way home. It was three against two, and they were heavily armed. They made off with the goods, but we flew after them, swift as an arrow, and brought them all down. We left them sprawling in the mud. They’ll think twice about having a go at us again.’
There was a silence. Gerda’s mouth fell open and the weaving shuttle dropped from her hand. Embla looked up at him, appalled.
‘He-he-he!’ crowed Malachi, rocking with laughter and slapping his knee in delight. ‘That’s priceless! Tell me, did you consider what would happen when news gets out that the Ericssons have been trampled in the mud by a boy on a small pony? The question is, will Thorgrim let you get away with making him a laughing-stock?’
Now that his euphoria had worn off, Helgi was beginning to worry that his retribution on the Ericssons might have serious consequences.
Malachi sat gloating, waiting for a reply, but Helgi only shot him an insolent glare.
‘Mark my words, they’ll avenge this insult,’ Malachi informed him, wagging his finger. ‘The whole thing could easily escalate into a terrible blood-feud. Even if they keep quiet because they’re afraid of being ridiculed, they’ll still want to get back at you.’
Helgi looked as if this was a matter of complete indifference to him. He wasn’t going to give Malachi the satisfaction of knowing he was afraid.
‘Helgi, go and tell your father. He’ll know what to do,’ said Gerda, worried now.
Helgi looked at her with a pained expression. ‘I can’t talk to him. Nobody can.’
Gerda frowned in disapproval but didn’t contradict him.
Helgi got up, went over to Gerda, and said in a low, contrite voice, ‘I’m sorry about the skyr.’
Gerda’s stiffness melted away at once and her eyes filled with tears. She held out her arms and folded him in a warm and protective embrace. She started to cry softly, hugging him fiercely, as if she wished she could defend him against the whole world.
The Adventures of Helgi the Viking 